


To Give and Receive

by Etheostoma



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: All of the family feels, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, Did I mention tooth rotting fluff, Fluff, M/M, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, holiday fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27980112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etheostoma/pseuds/Etheostoma
Summary: A reformed Javert spends his first Christmas with Valjean and Cosette. Gifts are exchanged, fluff abounds, and there is much snark and rejoicing.
Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent & Javert, Cosette Fauchelevent & Jean Valjean, Javert & Jean Valjean, Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	To Give and Receive

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I knew it was coming, and here it is....*throws out nearly 4k words of self-indulgent, mildly ooc holiday fluff*
> 
> Backstory is a thing somewhere, just not here. I'd say I'm sorry, but this is so shamelessly self-indulgent that I can't even say that and be in earnest. Still, it was fun to write, and hopefully is fun to read as well!
> 
> Comments and kudos are all of the love. Happy holidays!

Javert gritted his teeth and shrugged his shoulders deeper into the thick fabric of his greatcoat, doing his best to retreat from the ferocious bite of the brisk December wind. Already colder than average for this time of year, the frigid winter afternoon became almost unbearable with the addition of the cutting wind that whipped in from the river. With a grimace, Javert slipped one black-gloved hand deep into his coat pocket, fishing out his phone just enough to check the time before shoving it—and his hands—as far into the depths of the heavy wool as its design would allow.

He was going to be late.

“Shit.”

All the steps that he had taken to secure a free evening, all the effort that he had put forward during his shift to ensure that he would leave on time—yet, here he was, still practically running to cover the final blocks that stood between the precinct and Valjean’s apartment. The icy air did nothing to assist his efforts, creeping in through his mouth and nose and wrapping around his chest like an iron band, his lungs burning and constricting from the inside out. “Fuck, I hate winter,” Javert ground out, tucking his chin into his plush black scarf and upping his pace. He kept his elbows pressed close to his sides, a long, heavy package wrapped in garish red-and-green-striped paper tucked tightly between one arm and his side.

As the sun sank lower behind the towering city silhouette, lights flickered on one-by-one until Paris had transformed into a twinkling winter wonderland. Few pedestrians remained on the streets even at this relatively early hour of the evening, enthusiastically forgoing a Christmas stroll through the city in favor of the warm comfort of cozy, well-lit living rooms. Families were tucked into their homes and apartments or closeted away in their cars as they hurried on toward family celebrations or Christmas parties, and only those lonely souls going to or from work still paced the chalky-white sidewalks.

Javert felt entirely out of place amongst these civilians going home to their families, rather than closeted away at the precinct or fielding the never-ending onslaught of domestic calls so that his younger colleagues with families of their own did not have to. This year, however, he had requested an earlier shift, despite still getting stuck with one on the holiday itself, and traded favors and called in past-due “i-owe-yous” to finagle the evening and night of Christmas day for himself.

This year, he had someone waiting, a warm hearth and Jean Valjean—of all the unlikely people—waiting for _him, wanting_ him. He would not be facing this holiday alone.

His harried steps paused as he finally reached Valjean’s building, staggering up the steps with what little grace remained in his numb feet. He pressed the buzzer and stepped back from the door, crossing his hands behind his back and forcing himself not to fidget back and forth with restless nerves. Tonight was so far beyond the realm of his comfort zone that he might as well have been stepping onto the ground of a different continent rather than across the threshold of his partner’s apartment building.

“Javert!” The joyful cry startled him out of his reverie, and his head jerked up to attention as Valjean swung open the door and ushered him inside, allowing the heavy metal door to slam shut behind them. His shock of prematurely-white hair framed his surprisingly youthful face—which, though lined, radiated a buoyant, good-natured air, every smile the man had every borne or granted carefully chiseled about the curves of his eyes and the corners of his mouth. Those hazel eyes now crinkled in delight as they took in Javert, and the inspector could have sworn that the warmth he saw radiating out from them were tangible—for, how _else_ could he explain the sudden surge of heat that swept up from the tips of his toes to the top of his head as he followed Jean’s powerful figure up the stairs?

“I apologize for my tardiness,” Javert said brusquely, ducking his head to hide the flush that followed his sudden spike in pulse rate. One hand rose to the back of his head and fidgeted restlessly with the tie that held his greying dark hair in a neat queue, smoothing over imaginary loose strands and gathering the long tail in a loose fist. The gesture was one of the few nervous tics remaining to him, and one he thought that he had all but quashed until he had found himself thrust so far out of his element in this burgeoning relationship with Valjean.

“Nonsense,” Jean turned to him with another glowing smile, and, forgoing any sense of propriety, tugged the taller man forward into a tight embrace, reaching up to wrap his arms octopus-like about Javert’s shoulders. He tucked his head into the notch between Javert’s chin and collarbone, taking care to avoid jostling the long package tucked underneath Javert’s arm. “I’ve missed you, mon ami,” he murmured, warm breath ghosting across the frozen underside of Javert’s jaw and eliciting a shiver from the man in his arms.

Javert stiffened in shock, freezing at the sudden intimate embrace, and then allowed himself to slowly relax into Jean’s arms, sagging forward until his own arms rose to tentatively wrap around his partner’s waist and his head dipped down to rest on Jean’s shoulder. “I missed you as well,” he muttered into Jean’s collar, ducking his head to hide a small, fond smile in the wool of the atrocious red sweater that masked the strength of his familiar, powerful frame.

“Javert!!” A short green and red blur darted out of the house and attached itself to Javert’s side, arms snaking around his waist and head burrowing between him and Jean to rest against his stomach. “You made it!”

Bemused, he pulled back enough from Jean’s arms so that Cosette could breath and lowered a hand to rest on the back of her head, carding through her wayward brunette tresses. “It’s not as though I have anywhere else to be,” he replied, his dry tone belied by the grin that tugged at his lips and the look of wry affection he exchanged with Jean. “And what on earth are you wearing? It looks like Christmas vomited all over your clothing.”

“Yeah,” the ten-year-old countered, pulling back to pout up in his face, “but you are always at _work_ when you aren’t here.” She grinned at him.“ _No one_ needs to work on Christmas Day, not even you.” She crossed her arms. “And it’s _festive._ Papa and I made ugly Christmas sweaters today, and I already had the green tights so I put them together.”

“I didn’t mean to offend, ma petite,” Javert said gravely, valiantly conceding his struggle not to let his amusement show and allowing the small smile he had been restraining to break free and spread. “It’s quite the colorful ensemble.” Between father and daughter, he doubted the apartment had a jingle bell or bit of red fabric left within it. Thankfully—or rather not, the naughtier part of his mind complained—Jean had forgone the florid red-and-green-striped elf tights that his daughter wore in favor of more modest denim jeans.

Valjean quirked an eyebrow and gave a slight bow. “Thank you, Javert,” he said graciously, “we made you one as well.” Letting out a deep belly laugh at Javert’s answering look of horror, he swept his partner and Cosette into the apartment. “Come, it’s far too cold outside even to stand in the hallway. I’ve made wassail, and there is a roast in the oven, and wine. I know well you’ve barely eaten today.” He raised a hand as Javert made to object, staving off his protest. “Coffee does _not_ count as food.”

Javert fell silent, grumbling under his breath as Cosette giggled at his hip. “Papa is the best cook,” she told him earnestly, “and I know you agree because I’ve seen you at dinner. He _never_ has to tell _you_ to clean your plate.”

And, indeed, Javert’s stomach gave an interested rumble as he caught the scent of slowly-cooking meat wafting from the kitchen, accompanied by some sort of delicious spice and the savory crackle of roasting potatoes. He had gone his entire life never allowing himself any indulgences, from his clothing to his residence to his food. And so, this new life he was forging with Jean Valjean—where he was allowed to savor a good meal, and welcome the touch and company of another, and be welcome in return—was an entirely new path for him. He ate regularly now, and ate _well;_ his wines were no longer of the “whatever is cheapest” vintage; he spent far more nights in Jean’s actually-comfortable bed and homey flat instead of his own lumpy mattress and impersonal studio—and he found himself actually _wanting_ all of it.

“I cannot argue that,” he said finally, shucking his gloves and shrugging out of his long coat and scarf, tucking the gloves in his coat pocket before hanging it on the hook behind the door. “I believe _this_ is for you,” he told Cosette, handing her the long, narrow package he had been keeping tucked beneath his arm. “Careful now, it’s rather heavy.” Her eyes lit up in excitement as she fielded the gift, turning it this way and that as she peered at it appraisingly.

“Oh, thank you, Javert!!” she told him excitedly. “This _is_ heavy _—_ what is it?” Paper crinkled as she fidgeted with the wrapping, examining each line of tape with a critical eye as she felt the long box for any weaknesses.

He chuckled. “That would ruin the surprise, no? You have to wait to open it until after supper.”

“That’s right,” Jean added, catching Javert’s hand in his and squeezing. “Why don’t you go place it under the tree? Javert and I will be in to join you in a moment.”

Cosette nodded enthusiastically and bounded off to the sitting room in a whirlwind of color.

Taking Javert’s other hand, Jean held them both together and brought them to his lips. “Thank you,” he told his partner, “for coming today and for Cosette’s gift. You did not have to bring a gift, your being here is more than gift enough.”

Javert scoffed and rolled his eyes, raising his thumb to swipe along the scratchy edge of Jean’s neatly-trimmed beard. “Of course I did, the girl is ten, she needs presents from people who aren’t Jean Valjean. You spoil her, should I not be allowed to do the same?” His cheeks darkened in a slight flush at Jean’s answering fond smile.

“Thank you,” the older man repeated, standing on tiptoe to press a gentle kiss to the corner of Javert’s mouth. “From both of us.” He dropped a hand to tap on the butt of Javert’s gun where it rested at his hip. “Why don’t we get this put away and then go join Cosette? I have cocoa, and coffee, and that wassail—“

Javert was already nodding, sliding his holster from his belt and stepping to stow it and his badge in the small gun safe Jean kept in the spare bedroom. “You had me at coffee,” he drawled, reappearing and taking Valjean’s arm, trying to pretend he didn’t see the slight sag of relief in Valjean’s posture with the removal of his symbols of office. “But then, you’ve had me for a while.” He could see Jean’s countenance brighten at his utterly cheesy declaration, and quickly he held up a hand, forestalling the words he could see hovering on the tip of Valjean’s lips, “But, that is _still_ not enough for me to don one of your garishly festive atrocities.” He squeezed Valjean’s bicep for emphasis, simultaneously taking a moment to appreciate the iron band of muscle beneath his palm, and brushed an errant curl from that beloved forehead.

“I will, however, take you up on that coffee.”

Coffee melted into aperitifs, admiring what presents Cosette had already opened that morning, and a spirited conversation on the nature of Jean’s Christmas decorations— _“I believe tinsel is supposed to be an_ accent _on the tree, Jean, rather than the centerpiece”—_ and before Javert knew it dinner had come and gone, multiple courses consumed by all parties, a delicious trifle unveiled and devoured.

The deepening evening found them sequestered away in Valjean’s cozy living room, Cosette splayed out on a massive bean bag—her gift from Santa Claus—in front of the television, and Jean and Javert sprawled out on the couch. Valjean was settled in against the far side of the sofa, nestled against the armrest and squashy back, bare feet propped unceremoniously on the end table. He had shed his itchy sweater some time into their apparently traditional post-dinner Christmas movie marathon—somewhere between one version of _A Christmas Carol_ and some atrocity called _Elf—_ trading overly-festive wool for a soft emerald thermal that clung to his muscled chest and arms like a second skin.

Filled to bursting with food and several glasses of fine wine, Javert now succumbed to the lull of the warm fire crackling in the grate and the exhaustion of his twelve-hour shift, laying across three entire couch cushions, his head pillowed in Jean’s lap as he stared at the television through slightly-glazed eyes. His breaths came slow and measured, his body teetering on the cusp of sleep even as his mind struggled against it. With Jean’s hand in his hair, queue long undone, he felt a sense of contentment that he had not experienced in a long while—certainly, not since he was a worthless whelp, too young to know anything about the world besides the ramshackle slum he shared with his mother.

On the television, a troupe of reindeer pranced across the screen in a parade of stop-motion-animated glory, and Cosette giggled, kicking her feet up in the air behind her. “I love the Abominable Snowman,” she exclaimed, turning to grin back at her father. “He’s such a big softie even though he pretends to be mean.” Her bright eyes flickered to Javert and then up to Valjean.

“I know what you are implying, young lady,” Javert grumbled, narrowing his eyes and angling a sideways, sleepy glare at the girl, “and it is _not_ an accurate comparison.”

Jean traced his thumb along one of Javert’s angular cheekbones. “Oh, I don’t know, I think she’s spot on with this one.”

“Traitor,” the other man mumbled, nestling into Jean’s touch and stretching, catlike, as his partner’s other hand continued to card through his silvering hair. “See if I wish _you_ a Merry Christmas later.”Valjean’s body shook with laughter beneath Javert’s cheek, thighs quivering as he tried and failed to contain his mirth. “Shush, you,” he said, “stop being such a Grinch.”

“Can we watch that next?” Cosette asked excitedly, bouncing up to turn completely and stare pleadingly at the two men on the couch. “The cartoon one, that’s my favorite.”

“One more movie, Cosette,” Valjean told her, “and then it’s time for bed. It’s already getting late, and you _did_ wake me up before the sun this morning to open gifts.”

Cosette pouted momentarily and then brightened, rebounding with the indomitable fortitude of the ten-year-old machine. “Oh!! Javert’s gift!” She leapt from her perch and darted to the tree, retrieving the long package and dancing to the middle of the room with it. “May I, Papa, Javert?”

“Of course.”

She needed no further permission besides Javert’s amused agreement, tearing into the paper with the ferocity of a feeding shark. Green and red stripes gave way to a long black case, and, brow furrowed in concentration, Cosette carefully snapped it open. “Oh!”

“It’s a telescope,” Javert said self-consciously, dislodging Jean’s hands as he sat up and went to join Cosette where she knelt on the floor, hovering awkwardly next to the tree as he bent over to pull out the scope and its stand. “See? You can attach this bit to the stand, and we can adjust it for you as you get taller. It’s nothing exceptionally fancy, but it’s a good place to start.” He flushed, sensing both Cosette’s and Jean’s eyes upon him. “I thought—since you enjoy learning the constellations—“

“It’s _perfect.”_ Cosette all but bowled him over as she threw herself at his legs, wrapping her arms tightly around him and grinning from ear to ear. “Oh _thank you,_ Javert, I love it!” Sliding a sidelong glance at her father, she cocked her head inquisitively. “Can we set it up tonight??”

“Not tonight, dearest,” Jean told her, coming over to snake an arm about Javert’s waist. “But perhaps tomorrow evening, if we can perhaps convince Javert to stay the weekend?”

Javert snorted. “I hardly have anywhere else to be, the prefect all but bowed me out the door and handed me the rest of the month after I asked for a few days.” His gaze softened as he looked at the grinning girl. “I’d be delighted.”

She leapt up into his arms, reflexes alone allowing him to catch her, and pressed a kiss to his whiskery jaw. “Thank you, Javert!!”

He pressed a finger to the spot she had kissed, blinking in wonderment, before he came back to himself and set her gently on the ground. “You’re too old to be jumping at people, young lady,” he informed her, “but you are welcome.”

“Yes, thank you, Javert,” Jean murmured, watching Cosette carry the telescope and case back to her beanbag and settle back down in front of the television, attempting to watch the screen and assemble her new toy all at the same time. He wrapped his arms around Javert’s waist and pressed his face against Javert’s broad back, mouthing a kiss along the line of his spine. “Today has been everything I could have wanted for Cosette—and for myself. Having you here—you’re part of the family already, and—“ He paused, flustered, and shifted Javert’s long hair out of the way so he could press a warm kiss to the back of the man’s neck instead.

Intrigued, Javert twisted in his arms until they were face-to-face. Very little rendered Jean Valjean tongue-tied. “And?”

Jean flushed, tanned skin turning a dark pink. “I thought for weeks about what to give you as a gift,” he admitted quietly, looking up into Javert’s ice-storm eyes, “and nothing ever seemed quite _right_ until—“ He caught Javert’s hand, flipped it so that it was palm-up, and pressed a key into his open fingers. “Move in?” he entreated, hazel eyes bright and pleading. “I know you value your space, I know you have boundaries, but—we can still keep that here. I love you, and Cosette loves you, and the guest room is always open, and we can make a separate study for you where you can closet yourself away, and—“

“Jean.” Javert raised his free hand and pressed his fingers to Valjean’s lips. “You’re rambling.” His eyes crinkled, and he traced the crow’s feet gathered at the corners of Valjean’s own eyes, catching and holding the hazel orbs in an earnest stare. “I would be honored to move in, and although I can hardly fathom why you would invite a curmudgeonly old detective into your lives, let alone your _home_ , far be it for me to fail to leap at this opportunity.” His lips twitched. “So, yes.”

The blinding smile he received in return rivaled the bright gleam of the nearly-full moon hovering on the outside horizon. “Truly?” Jean asked, as though hardly daring to hope that he had heard Javert correctly.

Leaning forward, Javert brushed his nose across Jean’s before dipping in to taste his lips. “So it would seem,” he murmured, hands clasping the sides of Jean’s head in a gentle grip as he swept his thumbs up and along his temples.

Jean laughed, and darted forward to kiss Javert in earnest. “If you had told me even a _year_ ago that we would be here, I would not have believed it,” he breathed against Javert’s mouth. “And, I would not trade it for the world. _Any_ of it.”

Stormy eyes widened in disbelief. “Not even—“

“No.” Jean insisted, resolute in his certainty. “The past is what makes us who we are today, and what brought us here in the first place. Would you deny us this happiness, as hard-won as it is?”

A reckless impulse seized Javert, and he all but lunged forward to claim Jean’s mouth in a ravenous kiss, lips sliding and caressing and claiming, hands bunching in the thin material of Jean’s shirt at his breast. “Never,” he swore fervently, putting just enough distance between them to allow them to catch their breath. “I’m far too selfish for that.” The tender hand he swept across Valjean’s forehead and through his halo of snowy hair was offset by the second, blistering kiss he pressed to his lips, and he groaned as he felt Jean press forward against him.

“I believe we should perhaps save this for later, mon cher,” Jean said, laughter and desire fighting for dominance in his expression. “We can put Cosette to bed now”—and, indeed, the girl in question was now curled in a ball on her beanbag and sound asleep—“and then perhaps _we_ can go to bed as well.”

Javert chuckled, drawing back from Jean and pressing a long, lingering kiss to the tip of his nose. “Well then, let us make haste in seeing the munchkin to her room,” he declared, kneeling in the floor to scoop the slumbering child into his arms. Despite his teasing tone, he was unconditionally gentle with his brunette bundle, cushioning her head on his shoulder and balancing her against his chest as one would do with a much smaller child.

Jean thought his heart might burst with the swell of affection that threatened to overtake him.

“Do you need help?” he asked. “I thought I would put the fire out and get everything turned off in here, and then I’ll be in to say goodnight to her.”

Smiling, Javert shook his head. “We will be fine,” he promised. One dark eyebrow, not yet touched with the silver that was slowly creeping into his hair, arched upward. “Besides, I have yet to bestow _my_ gift to _you_ this Christmas night.”

At Jean’s answering noise of interest, he smirked and turned back down the hallway. “Hurry up with the cleaning,” he commanded, careful to keep his voice lowered so as not to wake Cosette. “Or you’ll be too late to unwrap it.”

Jean smothered the fire and bounded over to Javert before he could even take another step. “Oh, I’ll be ready,” he murmured, pressing a hot kiss to Javert’s neck and glancing up at him with a devilish smile. “In fact—“ he slipped Cosette from Javert’s arms and into his own, “I’ll get Cosette settled and you can go ahead on to my— _our—_ bedroom.“ He pressed a kiss to Javert’s heart, feeling the pulse flutter beneath his lips even through his partner’s shirt.

“Just don’t forget the bow.”


End file.
